


A Wrong Word

by BurningLeviathans



Category: Dishonored
Genre: False Accusations, Gen, Mild torture, Mostly abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-26
Updated: 2013-02-26
Packaged: 2017-12-03 17:05:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/700631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BurningLeviathans/pseuds/BurningLeviathans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Martin is wrongly accused of aiding in Corvo's immediate escape. But he does not say it was another Overseer, and takes the fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Wrong Word

Rough hands grab him beneath the arms, around the upper arms, around the shoulders. They're unforgiving as they yank him away, a single shout exiting his lips when he's hit over the back of the head, knocked unconscious. Only the roiling black is familiar to his mind as men scurry about, shouting and dragging him into the large building.

When he wakes, it's to an unforgiving chair in an unforgiving cell. There is nothing around the chair but walls, a table, and the bars that lead in behind him. Above him, there is a viewing room, but his head throbs far too much to lift and look to see who occupies it, if anyone. His blurred vision slowly clears, making out five, maybe six forms. His mind is still a haze. Voices are muffled as they reach his ears, but the sight of the familiar golden masks tell him that these are all men he's worked with, men he's patrolled with. Men he's slept with, in one form or another of the word.

He doesn't realise his own face is still covered until a hand roughly grips his throat, another tilting his chin up and sliding a finger beneath the chin of his mask, tearing it off. It had only become mandatory that the Overseers wear their masks when patrolling outside when the plague had hit. Otherwise, his mask would be collecting dust next to his bunk. The metal clatters away, making him wince from both the sharp noise that bounces around the walls, and the strong lights that assault his eyes.

He doesn't get any time to recover before a sharp blow is dealt to him, just about knocking him from the chair, had he not been strapped into it. His head is jerked to the side from the impact, and there's a burning feeling in his lips, warmth oozing down his chin. He's bleeding. The sanguine fluid drip onto his coat, staining it a dark colour.

It's only the first of the assault. Various weapons are used against him. Hands are the first stage, fists relentlessly flying into contact with his body, drawing grunts and groans from him when the air is available. Next, it's brass weapons. Metal bars and brass protectors that slide over one's glove to cover one's knuckles cut deeply into his skin, releasing more and more blood.

It doesn't take long for his coat to be in ribbons, his skin nearly following the same look. His flesh, beneath it's red mask, is a menagerie of deep, ugly colours. Blues, yellows, blacks, purples. Colours that are not suited to his skin. Colours that he hasn't worn for year.

Words are yelled at him, followed by three, four blows, followed by the same words. The actions become repetitive, and all he can soon hear is his own heart beat through the throbbing agony his body screams. It becomes difficult to focus, but focus he does.

They demand to know where they are. Where they're hiding, where they took Attano in. He doesn't know. They demand to know why he aided them, why he aided the Empress's killer. He pleads innocence in the act. They don't believe him. Another ten cracks collide with his body, before the shouting resumes.

He is threatened with the Heretic's Brand, with exile, with death. Still, he remains steadfast in what he's able to say. He did not aid in Attano's immediate escape. Though, he does not say that he had laid down the initial plans for the escape. That seems inconsequential now. They continue beating him, each man taking a turn when the previous tires. It seems like hours.

When he is no longer able to speak, they leave him. The door is closed, the locks clicking into place, the lights shutting off. He is left alone in the dark. The entire time, he did not cry. Now, he does not cry. He will never cry. The pain is immeasurable, but he does not cry.

Days later, they return. He is afraid that the whole process will be repeated, but it doesn't happen. Instead, he is dragged away, to the small bathhouse down the street that the recruits use. There, is he stripped brutally, everything torn away from his broken frame. They throw him into an agonising spray of water, unforgiving hands scrubbing him clean of his blood. They even go so far as to clothe him, before leading him into Holger Square. 

He cannot understand what is being said. But it doesn't matter; he understands enough from what is happening. He doesn't need to see the large crowd of Overseers gathered to know they are there. Soon, he is kicked forward, moved towards the center of the Square, and pushed up a platform, where a fist collides with his gut. He drops to his knees, just as they want, and cold metal clamps around his neck and wrists.

He doesn't struggle, doesn't plead innocence. He knows they will come for him; they will send Corvo for him if they wish for his aid.

The first day is the hardest. He is taunted relentlessly, Overseers that used to respect him spitting on him as they pass, purposely throwing stones. Rats aren't as bad during the day as they are at night. But he remains steadfast, keeping his head as high as he can in the stocks, and his spirits even higher. They may have broken his body, but they cannot break the man himself.

When Corvo walks up the platform and pulls the lever to free him, he sighs in relief, standing and rubbing his neck. He thanks the masked man, offering a prayer of safety, and heads down the road. He does not mention the abuse he wrongly suffered for another Overseer's mistake. 

From what he'd heard, the man was dead, anyway.


End file.
